The Isle of Macnannan Mac LirThe Irish say, that in the western seaIs set an island deep embowered in treesOf deathless verdure, where the morning breezeBlows on through noon to eve unceasingly;Yet such that island's magic property,No mariner its pine-tipt summit seesSave whom the spirits of the Ocean pleaseTo take unto their chorus. Only heSteers thitherward; no feet but his alightOn that fantastic shore; he only feelsThe ravishment of that immortal day.For they that are denied this gift of sightNaught see but tumbling waves; their lonely keelsPlough on and on a barren waste for aye.Enoch Powell, Collected Poems